


Unfortunate Son (the Liar, Liar, Liar Remix)

by Lady_Ganesh



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Self-Hatred, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-08-18 20:31:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20197714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Ganesh/pseuds/Lady_Ganesh
Summary: The morning after's always crowded with thoughts of the night before.





	Unfortunate Son (the Liar, Liar, Liar Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkrosaleen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrosaleen/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Fortunate Son](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3202892) by [darkrosaleen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkrosaleen/pseuds/darkrosaleen). 

_We kneel because we're Catholics,_ his father had said once, _simple as that. Say our prayers, take the host. Come out of the service all shiny and new._

_Salvation isn't by faith alone,_ Declan said.

_Well, you better be careful of your works, then, too._ Niall had winked, carefree, walking as light on the earth as a sunbeam. He'd been so light on the earth.

But everything falls.

Declan had a bruise on his right knee; he'd known he was going to get it when he got up from the stall, his leg slamming into metal, and the construction worker had caught his arm and said, _You all right, son?_ Declan's gut had twisted and it'd taken him too long to stammer out an answer. _Yeah, I'm fine. Fine._

The bruise hurt. He'd been spending too much time on his knees. Niall hadn't taught him to kneel anywhere but at church, but Niall was dead, and all his works were sleeping, and Declan felt pretty confident that Niall had lost his vote. Declan spent half his waking time on school and the other half trying to keep everyone afloat, and through it all was the steady drumbeat of how he'd failed, failed to protect his father or his mother or his brothers. Failed for not having the gift Niall had wielded as easily as he'd laughed or danced or sung. Failed to keep his brother close, and now he was living in a warehouse that would've been shut down as a hazard if Gansey hadn't had even more money than the Lynches to throw around. And if he lost Ronan--if Ronan finally accomplished the oblivion he was so desperately courting--he lost Matthew, too. Nothing left but two slumbering, vacant souls and a barn full of dreams he barely knew how to sell.

You kneeled in church and you didn't start sobbing in the middle of the prayer, either, so Declan focused on the hollow soreness in the back of his throat instead. He'd wanted it to be rough. Had begged for it. _Such a good boy,_ the man had said, and he'd wanted to do more than suck him off, had wanted to let him take him back to some cheap, flea-bitten Super Eight, let the man spank him, fuck him. _Daddy, Daddy, I'll be so good for you, Daddy._ He wondered how many other guys had gotten down on his knees for the man, old enough to be his father, salt-and-pepper hair matted down from a hard hat. He wondered how many guys had woken up sore and used, with the smell of sawdust and metal still lingering in their minds. He wondered if the construction worker was still thinking about him this morning, or if he forgot the men who sucked him off the second he walked out of the bathroom. 

Someday he'd hit the wrong bar or truck stop at the wrong time and someone would recognize him, and then he didn't know what he'd do. Someday the man would ask _What would your daddy think if he could see you like this?_ and mean it.

Declan didn't want to think about it.

_Our Father who art in heaven,  
Hallowed be thy name._

Most of the men didn't want him to talk, and that was fine. Having them in his mouth was enough. But last night's construction worker had caught his need, seen almost through him. _Good boy,_ he'd said. _Look at that pretty mouth._

In the morning, he always remembered how fucking _stupid_ he was, how risky it was. How easily _he_ could be the one getting himself hurt or worse, and then who would take over the business? Ronan didn't even know it existed. Ronan wouldn't be able to manage it, anyway. Too impulsive. Too loud. Not even in control of what he could do yet, and he might never be, at this rate.

Landing in the hospital might be preferable to Ronan hauling his ass out of jail. 

It didn't stop him, though. It never stopped him. The formula was simple: put on something that made him look young and skinny and vulnerable, drive somewhere new, scan the hookup spots for one that looked promising, buy a beer and wait. Someone always turned up. Someone always liked the way he looked.

Usually it ended with him jerking himself off in a bathroom stall, still on his knees, sometimes with a man watching him, sometimes alone. Once it had been in the cab of a long-haul truck. _Keep your head down, boy, someone might see._

_I'll be good,_ Declan had muttered, and heard _you do that, Son,_ for his trouble. 

_Good boy,_ echoed in Declan's head, not the truck driver's New England accent. Irish.

_Daddy._ He'd never called Niall that. But--

_Holy father,_ Niall's voice echoed in his head, not quite sardonic. _Forgive us all._

His knees were aching now. Not too much longer. Communion, prayer, concluding rite. Matthew was half-staring at the ceiling; not bored, not lost. Just...Matthew. Sometimes Declan looked at him and wondered how it was that everyone else couldn't see what he really was. Magic seemed written on his face to Declan. Like it always had been on Mom's, though he hadn’t recognized that until it was far too late.

Declan rubbed the bruise on his knee with the palm of his hand, and Ronan shot him a look. It was out of character for Declan to be the one fidgeting at Mass. Declan just ignored him, looked straight ahead instead, set his jaw. Ronan didn't need to know about any of this. Ronan had enough problems. Ronan _was_ enough problems.

There were bills to pay this month. Matthew's tuition. More schoolbooks to buy, there were always more fucking books. Another bribe to keep Ronan at Aglionby, probably. A buyer had emailed him looking for one of Niall's 'finds,' and he'd told them he didn't work on Sundays. But Monday would come. Monday always came.

Communion. Finally. _O Lord, we humbly implore you._ Blood and body. 

The construction worker had had clean hands, but there were traces of grime in his nails. Construction guys didn't wear wedding rings, but this guy had a band tattooed on his ring finger. Maybe she'd died. Maybe she knew.

The man had been tender at the end, almost gentle, and when Declan got back in his car, he'd started sobbing, the tears doing nothing for his aching throat, his fists pounding against the dashboard. _Tell me I'm good, Daddy. Tell me I'm doing the right thing. Tell me I'm fucking up. Something. Anything._

Niall had told him so many things before he’d died. Told him what the business was, how to work it. But not enough. Not how many people he'd pissed off, or how much they'd be willing to do to get what they wanted. 

_Tell me I'm a good liar, Daddy, like you were._

The construction worker had given him money, told him to take a cab, and he'd been strangely kind about it. Like Declan was more of a lost soul than a truck stop hooker or a slumming rich boy. Like he really was someone the man could care about, if everything was different. _Take care of yourself, all right?_

The Host felt dry and brittle in his mouth. That was all right. He didn't deserve salvation anyway.

**Author's Note:**

> Darkrosaleen's original story was a hell of a lot of fun to dig into. Thanks to them and my beta.


End file.
